orange is the color of anxiety, and it’s all your fault

along the riverbeds, I traced the loose rough soil as lace
I collected the pebbles that told me of you,
and I cast them out
over the water, over the mirrors, watching the handfuls of delicate truths shatter through the tense glassy surface.
I wonder
if among them sing the voices of the woods, of the leaves and bitter ices, or
the clamor of you and me and him and her leaping from branch to careful branch
The worst of it is that the river never knows it’s broke; she never notices
the thousand cracks, the trillion ripples, the sinking stones
unless
by chance one day one such pebble
turns fearless, coral-orange and oddly brave
and whispers instead of screaming.

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